


A soul beneath the surface

by Veto_power_over_clocks



Series: Afebrile, hemodynamically stable [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Gen, Human AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non Canon Pronouns, Past Child Abuse, Tailgate has a crush the size of the moon on Cyclonus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-07-28 04:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16234205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veto_power_over_clocks/pseuds/Veto_power_over_clocks
Summary: There’s Tailgate, the nursing student, Cyclonus the Nurse Manager, and Whirl, the Worst Pediatrics Patient.There’s also a dog. It’s very important.





	A soul beneath the surface

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 3 of "Such a big deal, though" (my "TFP!Starscream goes neutral" fic, in case you're wondering) was emotionally exhausting. Since my To Write list is approximately 15 items long, I figured it was time to take a break and write something else.
> 
> I know no one's reading MTMTE/LL for humans, but I really wanted to write a more-or-less accurate hospital AU. I still took some liberties with how hospitals work, for plot reasons.
> 
> This takes place in some ambiguous place in the world that isn't the US, because I don't know a thing about how hospitals and med school work in the US.
> 
> Assume that everyone here looks like their holomatter avatars, except for Tailgate, who is a lot older than what her avatar looks like.
> 
> Like my previous TF fics, this one was beta-read by the wonderful, beautiful, and amazing elise and Soundwave-and-Casettes. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
>  **WARNING:** implied/referenced child abuse (specifically, references to broken bones, and scalds). More details about what to skip can be found at the end notes.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** this is a work of fiction. No real medical histories were referenced in the writing of this fic. Any similarities to real medical histories are a coincidence.

 

**_Whirl_ **

This is what Whirl owns: two pinwheels, an eyepatch, and a broken wristwatch. Everything else she might fool herself into thinking she has (clothes, shoes, a place to spend the night) is temporary and could be taken away.

She also knows that those things she’s certain of owning could easily be taken away, but she likes to pretend some things are hers forever.

Whirl never forgets that she’s just pretending. It’s what has allowed her to keep those things for so long.

 

**_Tailgate_ **

Blue scrubs? Check.

Lanyard and ID card? Check.

Wallet? Check.

Locker keys? Check.

Tailgate has everything she needs. She’s ready for this and not only in terms of equipment, oh no. She has reviewed everything. Forms of isolation? What to do when you can’t find the artery? The best veins to draw blood from? How to deal with the med interns who think they know everything just because they wear a white coat? She can do it. She’s ready.

She’s going to be the best nursing intern the hospital has seen.

Of course, she oversleeps and shows up to her first day of internship an hour late.

.

.

.

.

Apparently, the nurse manager had asked that the tardy new intern be sent to her as soon as she arrived, so the moment Tailgate’s finished presenting her excuses to the unimpressed nurse in charge of the interns, she’s directed to a small door with a plaque reading ‘Nurse Manager’ on it.

She knocks. There’s the sound of a chair being pushed back and footsteps approaching the door, which then opens to reveal a tall woman that Tailgate’s brain struggles to describe as anything besides _gorgeous_.

Unconsciously, Tailgate stands straighter, but the top of her head doesn’t even reach the nurse manager’s shoulder; she must be 190cm tall? 185? Well, she’s _tall_ , that’s what Tailgate’s saying. Very tall and very attractive.

Then she looks down, and Tailgate adds ‘intimidating’ to the list of adjectives.

“Miss Gates?” the nurse manager says and, look at that, her voice is nice too, pity she’s using it to sound disapproving and disappointed.

No panic allowed in front of her gorgeous… boss? Oh no, she’s technically her boss, isn’t she?

And Tailgate hasn’t replied yet.

“Yes,” she manages to say. “I am really sorry for my delay, Nurse…”

“Cyclonus.” Tailgate doesn’t steal a look at the nurse manager’s ID card, because they’re still looking at each other and she has a feeling that Nurse Cyclonus is expecting her to do so. There’s nothing in her face that suggests it, but Tailgate can feel the… not a challenge, really. Something. But she can feel that Nurse Cyclonus is waiting for Tailgate to try to confirm if that’s actually her name, which means she can’t do it.

“I am really sorry for my delay, Nurse Cyclonus.”

A nod, then Nurse Cyclonus is walking back into her office and sitting down behind her desk.

“Nursing is a serious job. You understand that, don’t you?”

Tailgate is still standing in front of the door. She enters the office and reaches to close the door, but a gesture from Nurse Cyclonus stops her.

The office is big enough for a desk, a locker, and the smallest bookshelf Tailgate has ever seen. There are no pictures on the desk, no decorations, only a stack of papers; there’s nothing in the room that could hint at the kind of person that Nurse Cyclonus is. The curtains are open, letting the morning light into the room.

Taking hold of the ID card hanging from her neck, to stop herself from fidgeting, Tailgate says, “I understand.”

“Good.”

Is she supposed to reply to that? Is something else coming? Nurse Cyclonus is just looking at her, her face neutral. Tailgate drops her ID card, lets her arms hang at her sides, and doesn’t say a word. She’s sure she’ll start babbling if she opens her mouth.

“Are you aware that if you are late to a shift, the one who pays the consequences is the colleague you’re supposed to be relieving of duty?”

“I am, Nurse Cyclonus.”

“Will this happen again, Miss Gates?”

“Of course not. This was just… bad luck with my alarm clock.”

For a few seconds, Nurse Cyclonus only watches her. Now that the surprise of the first moment has gone, Tailgate can take the opportunity to actually look at her and make sense of what she’s seeing. The first distinct thing is that her hair, which Tailgate had at first thought to be black, seems to be dyed a very dark shade of _purple_ , only made noticeable under the morning sun (it’s a rather bold color for a woman that, so far, has shown herself to be very strict), and it’s held in a bun. Her skin is dark and Tailgate can see some wrinkles on her face (not many, though; just the natural marks on the skin of a woman that, by Tailgate’s estimate, must be around forty). She doesn’t seem to be wearing make-up.

“You can rejoin your activities.”

“That’s it?” Tailgate blurts out, caught unawares by the instruction.

“Where you expecting something else?” Nurse Cyclonus asks, one perfect eyebrow rising.

“Well… yes. Some sort of… punishment, or to be told off or… something.”

The other eyebrow rises as well.

“This is a hospital, not high school, Miss Gates. I only called you here to know who you were.”

“So… no yelling?” Tailgate asks, frowning.

“Should I be yelling?”

“I mean… I did other things before becoming a nurse-” Stop, you’re oversharing. “Well, my last boss yelled a lot.”

“Did you file a complaint against them? Yelling at your employees and subordinates is an abuse of power.” Her eyebrows finally go down.

For a moment, all Tailgate can do is blink. “Uh. Yes. I did.”

“Good.” Nurse Cyclonus nods in what is definitely approval and her expression softens. A bit. Tailgate’s sure it’s softer now. “Since you were late, they probably assigned you to room 611.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

Yes, Nurse Cyclonus’ expression had definitely been softer earlier, because at Tailgate’s question it darkens. It’s a small change, but it’s there, in that her jaw tightens and there’s something around her eyes that makes her seem more guarded.

Had it been wrong to use the word “bad”? Nurse Cyclonus had asked her about the seriousness of the job, maybe she shouldn’t have used a word that implied she was capable of feeling negatively about it?

“It’ll depend on you,” is the eventual answer. “Don’t let Whirl intimidate you.”

“Whirl?”

“That’s the name she likes to go by.”

“I’ll remember that,” Tailgate says.

That only gets her another nod of probable approval from Nurse Cyclonus, who turns her attention to the stack of paperwork on her desk.

“I’ll be going now?” No answer. She takes a step towards the door. “Excuse me,” she says before leaving.

The hallway’s mainly illuminated by the lights on the roof, yellow light instead of the white one that had filled Nurse Cyclonus’ office. Between that, the noise, and the people coming and going, Tailgate feels like she just stepped out of a pocket dimension.

.

.

.

.

They had, in fact, assigned her to room 611. To familiarize herself with ‘Whirl’ before seeing her, Tailgate goes to check her file, but instead of a small folder, what she finds is a full binder, as thick as her arm and as heavy as injustice.

“This is the Pediatrics wing, right?” she asks no one in particular.

The girl – her name’s Milagros, but Tailgate can’t help thinking of all her classmates as girls, they’re all so young – standing next to her, who is also reviewing files, takes one look at the binder and cringes.

“Yes, it is,” she says, glancing at Tailgate before refocusing her attention on the binder.

“Then… how?” She shows the binder’s side to Milagros, letting her see that it’s, indeed, full. “No kid should have a file this thick.” She reconsiders. “Okay, fine, kids can have files this thick, but usually not in… this sort of rooms. This is the sort of file you find in the ICU!”

“That’s Wendy’s file, right?”

Opening the binder to the first page, she sees that Whirl’s legal name is, in fact, Wendy. Milagros hadn’t waited for confirmation before continuing, making an apologetic face, “They warned us about her. You got her because you were late.”

“As punishment?”

“Yes. Sorry.” Her tone makes it seem like she really feels bad, but if that was the case, Tailgate figures she could have volunteered to take the patient.

“It’s fine,” Tailgate sighs. She’s been through worse than a file that could probably be used to bash someone’s brains in.

The answer she gets is a look of disbelief and pity that annoys Tailgate.

“So, Milagros,” Tailgate says in a clipped voice. She clears her throat and continues, in a softer tone, “what did they say about 611?”

“Not much, since it’d go against patient confidentiality. But they told us she’s ‘difficult’, which here is probably code for ‘annoying and mean’... A nurse told me they call her ‘the Worst Pediatrics Patient’.”

Tailgate purses her lips and skims through the file. Whirl’s fifteen years old, she’s been around since she was seven, and there is so much on the file – Child Protection Services, running away, psychiatrists, foster homes, a _gang_ (!?) – that Tailgate finds herself pitying this kid she’s never met. Now she’s here for an infection that’s attributed to a surgery she had six months ago.

This is Whirl’s second stay at the hospital since the surgery. According to the file, she could have been discharged a week ago, but they weren’t sure she’d keep up with the antibiotics on her own, so they’d kept her in. She’ll finish the treatment in a week.

Tailgate closes the file and does her best to push the anxiousness aside. She has other patients to familiarize herself with.

She reaches for the next patient’s file.

.

.

.

.

It’s clear that Whirl has been waiting for her. Tailgate cautiously enters the room to find her standing by the door, grinning, showing her teeth in a way that could be friendly if she wasn’t standing so close and if her single, amber-colored eye (almost yellow, Tailgate hadn’t imagined that eyes like that could exist) wasn’t fixed on her in a scrutinizing manner.

She’s around ten centimeters taller than Tailgate, a skinny thing that gives more ‘underfed’ than ‘naturally thin’ vibes, probably from a mix of the surgeries, the various treatments, and the rather colorful life she’d been leading. Besides that, there are more details that catch Tailgate’s attention: she’s wearing an eyepatch, there’s scar tissue on the area of her chest that can be seen under the gown, there are various scars on her arms, she’s missing her right index finger and her left ring and little fingers, and the teal dye on her hair needs to be reapplied, as there is a brown stripe on the top of her head. It’s too much for a body that’s only been around for fifteen years; what’s left for the future?

The grin widens. “Nurse! Finally! Cyclonus told me a student would begin looking after me and she hasn’t showed up yet! You have to kick her out of school for that!” She takes a step backwards and turns to flop onto the bed.

“I’m the student,” Tailgate says, wincing at the position Whirl’s in. Sure, she might have been treated, but she was still recovering from what had happened to her, should she be lying on her stomach?

Whirl rolls onto her side to give Tailgate a dubious look.

“How? You’re _ancient_.”

“No, I’m not!” she says, offended.

“You are! You’re like… thirty-five? Forty? Who goes into nursing at _forty_?”

Tailgate gives Whirl an indignant look, mouth opening and closing because she can’t sass a fifteen year old that’s also _her patient_.

Right. She can’t.

“I’m here to introduce myself,” she says, recovering her composure.

Whirl’s still on her side. At Tailgate’s words, she tilts her head, so it ends up digging into the bed’s covers and giving her neck an odd angle. Her eye narrows. Tailgate crosses her arms and returns the stare, making sure not to seem nervous.

Then, Whirl yawns. She sits on the edge of the bed, raises the covers and in one fluid movement gets into the bed, turns her back to Tailgate, and pulls the covers over her head, so not even a stray hair is visible.

“You bore me. My next dose is in two hours, see you then.”

Tailgate presses her lips tightly, inhales deeply, exhales heavily. She takes the moment to look around the room. There’s a thick paperback book on the bedside table, but Tailgate can’t see the cover. There’s also a vase, but instead of flowers it contains two pinwheels. The breakfast tray hasn’t been taken away yet; Whirl has drunk the tea, but she hasn’t touched the crackers and the jam.

“You know you’re supposed to eat, right?” she asks Whirl’s immobile form. She speaks gently, with what she’s been told is a comforting and understanding tone.

“Have you eaten this stuff, nurse? It’s awful. Tasteless. Boring. I bet prisoners eat better than this.”

“The nutritionists-”

“Have obviously never been hospitalized. If they had, they wouldn’t give us this crap. You wouldn’t tell me to eat if you knew what it tastes like.”

“It tastes like they’re trying to scare you into getting better,” Tailgate says plainly.

The lump under the covers moves, and the fabric moves until Whirl’s eye is visible.

“You get it, nurse,” Whirl says solemnly. “So don’t make me eat it.”

There are plenty of things Tailgate would like to say to that, but she bites her tongue, makes sure she’s not raising her eyebrows and replies, “See you in two hours, Whirl.”

Then she leaves.

 

**_Cyclonus_ **

“Code Pink. Sixth floor. Pediatrics. Code Pink. Sixth floor. Pediatrics.”

There’s a certain musicality to the announcement, a melody to the words that Cyclonus would appreciate more if it was a Code Black, or a Code Red, perhaps even a Code Blue, but a Code Pink on her floor? She takes out her phone and flips it open before it starts ringing. Half a second later, there’s a call from the nurses’ station.

“Whirl?” she says by way of greeting.

“Whirl,” the voice at the other end of the line sighs heavily. It sounds like Andrea, one of the newest nurses.

“I’m on my way.”

.

.

.

.

Cyclonus has worked in the hospital for eleven years and she was the one who, eight years ago, saw the scalds on Whirl’s chest and remembered a girl with yellow eyes that she had seen on the first hospital she’d worked in, one who had arrived with a broken arm from ‘falling down the stairs’ and whose parents had asked for her to be discharged as soon as Cyclonus started asking too many questions. The parents didn’t remember her, and this time Cyclonus was careful with her inquiries, her silences and her expressions.

What happened afterwards was Child Protection Services, foster homes that Whirl always escaped from, a series of accidents and worrying decisions. Every single time, Whirl found her way to the hospital and asked for Cyclonus.

“All of this is your fault,” Whirl told her when she was twelve. Cyclonus was cleaning a deep gash on Whirl’s leg – apparently she’d tried to steal from someone she shouldn’t have messed with – and she didn’t need to look up to know that, despite the nonchalant tone, Whirl was furious. She didn’t reply. “If you hadn’t called the cops, I wouldn’t be here,” Whirl continued, matter-of-factly.

“You’re right, you might be dead.” Cyclonus took her time putting the area in order and washing her hands before returning.

Whirl had curled her hands into fists on her lap and was glaring at her.

“I hate you.”

Cyclonus crossed her arms over her chest and returned an impassive look. A child hated her. Who cared? She had been told worse things by more important people. She saw Whirl’s jaw clench and her eyes narrow, a challenge in her eyes that Cyclonus would not accept. Whirl looked away first; she scoffed and jumped off the stretcher, sat on a wheelchair and demanded to be taken to the bathroom.

.

.

.

.

She finds Andrea and Miss Gates, the nursing student that had been assigned to Whirl that day, waiting in front of the door to room 611. Miss Gates is wringing her hands, staring at some point on the floor, and breathing slowly, following a pattern (breathing in for six seconds, holding for three seconds, six seconds to breathe out).

“What happened?” Cyclonus asks Miss Gates.

“I-” it comes out high-pitched, and Miss Gates immediately closes her mouth. She clears her throat, swallows and, in a more controlled, although shaky, voice says, “It was time for her medication, but when I came in I couldn’t find her. I checked the bathroom and then the entire wing. I asked others if they’d seen her, but they haven’t.”

“Did you get to meet Whirl?”

A confused frown. “Yes, I came to see her after reviewing her file.”

“I told you not to let her intimidate you.”

“I didn’t!”

“If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be panicking now.” It’s probably what Whirl wanted. She can picture the scene, Miss Gates coming into the room made a nervous wreck and Whirl seeing her and thinking that it’d be fun to mess with her. It’s not the first time she’s done something like this.

“We checked the security cameras,” Andrea says, bringing Cyclonus’ attention to him. “She was caught leaving from the northern entrance.”

“Thank you, Andrea. I’ll get her.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “She only has a week left, right?”

“She does,” Miss Gates says, nodding a couple of times. Cyclonus appreciates that she had at least taken the time to read Whirl’s file. “I’ll go with you,” Miss Gates says, turning to Cyclonus.

“You still have patients left to see here. You can’t go.”

“I’ve checked on all of them. I can go.” She stands straighter and looks Cyclonus in the eyes as she says, “She’s my patient and she’ll be my patient for a whole week. If this is because she’s trying to intimidate me, then I have to prove to her that it won’t be that easy. I have to go.”

There’s a second of silence before Cyclonus decides. She gestures for Miss Gates to follow and makes her way to the elevator. She hears Miss Gates’ quick steps behind her, so she slows down to allow her to catch up.

They reach the elevator together.

.

.

.

.

After the declaration of hate, Whirl’s next visit to the hospital was the result of an accident. Cyclonus didn’t understand why they’d brought her there instead of an emergency room closer to where the incident had happened, but then she found out that Whirl had lied to be taken there. What the paramedics and the ER team told Cyclonus was that Whirl had only spoken with sarcasm and insults, except for when she’d asked if Cyclonus was on shift that day, which was the only reason they’d called her and requested that she leave the sixth floor and descend to the Pediatric ER. Once there, Cyclonus found that Whirl would have looked mostly fine, just some cuts and bruises, if it weren’t for the fact that she was also missing her left eye and three fingers. She painted a gruesome picture.

It took all of Cyclonus’ self-control not to demand to know who had done that. It’s not like she could have done something, and Whirl wouldn’t have wanted to tell. In the six years they’d known each other, the only thing Whirl had shared was her hatred.

Out of all of Whirl’s stays at the hospital, that’s the one that haunts Cyclonus’ nightmares. They’d said that Whirl had spoken the whole time, but as soon as Cyclonus appeared, she shut up. She spent most of her stay completely silent, looking out the window of her room, her remaining fingers tapping a rhythm on the face of a wristwatch she wouldn’t let anyone touch.

“What will you do with that?” Whirl asked Cyclonus on the third day of her stay, pointing with her chin at the front pocket of Cyclonus’ scrubs, still tapping on her watch, her voice raspy from disuse.

A kid had left the hospital that day and he’d given Cyclonus the orange and white pinwheel some visitor had brought him. She’d heard him talk about how much he didn’t like it.

“Throw it away.”

Whirl lost the rhythm for an instant.

Cyclonus approached the bed, inspected Whirl’s wounds, handed her the new medications the psychiatrists had prescribed and waited for her to take them.

“Stop giving me that look,” Whirl scoffed. “I’ll be fine from now on.”

“You’re thirteen years old. You have no guarantee of that.”

“I do. I’ll be fine. You’ll see.” She turned to the window again.

Before leaving, Cyclonus took out the pinwheel and left it on the bed. A couple of times she walked past the room and caught a glimpse of Whirl playing with it, blowing on it and watching it spin.

Soon her social worker came for her again, got her into another home. Cyclonus didn’t find the pinwheel in the room and assumed Whirl had thrown it away before leaving.

.

.

.

.

“She’s been through a lot, hasn’t she?” Miss Gates quietly says as the elevator goes down.

Cyclonus gives her a sideways look, then stares ahead at the elevator doors. This conversation seems to be of the ‘well-meaning pity’ type, which neither she nor Whirl appreciate.

The elevator stops on the second floor. An elderly couple walks in and smiles at them. Miss Gates returns the smile and promptly asks them what floor they’re going to, hurrying to push the button. She doesn’t speak again until they’re in the hospital’s lobby.

“I noticed that you’ve always been one of her nurses. I guess that’s how you know how to handle her, right?” They keep walking. Cyclonus doesn’t know what this woman is trying to get to. “I’ll do my best this week, I promise you.” Her determined tone makes Cyclonus glance at her again.

“You should always do your best.”

Miss Gates purses her lips, then smiles.

“True. But I’ll start with this week and keep going from there.”

They reach the street and look around. Tailgate seems like she’s just trying to find a clue, but Cyclonus is looking for one person in particular: a street merchant.

People selling food and cheap toys outside the hospital aren’t strange, but this is the only vendor that sells pinwheels. She finds him just a few meters away, looking annoyed.

“Good morning,” she tells the man. He narrows his eyes at her.

“Are you in charge of a girl with an eyepatch and blueish, greenish hair?”

“I am. When did you see her?”

“About half an hour ago. She stole a pinwheel.”

“I’ll pay for it. Where did she go?”

“She went that way,” the man says, gesturing to his right. Cyclonus is now certain of where the search will end.

She pays for the pinwheel and starts walking quickly, Miss Gates beside her, almost jogging to keep up the pace. This time, Cyclonus can’t afford to slow down.

“Where are we going?” Miss Gates asks.

“There’s a park two blocks from here. She’ll be there.”

.

.

.

.

“I joined a gang. I’m ‘Whirl’ now,” was the first thing Whirl told Cyclonus on her next visit, with a toothy smile. She was sitting on the edge of the stretcher, kicking her legs and drumming her fingers on her thighs. This time she wasn’t the patient, she was there with a slightly older boy who gave her a scandalized look when she said the word ‘gang’. She didn’t seem to have any new wounds or scars; what she did have was an eyepatch, dyed hair, and a small red backpack she was holding onto like it contained the key to salvation. She was wearing the wristwatch; it was then that Cyclonus noticed it wasn’t working.

Catching Cyclonus’ look, Whirl covered the watch with her hand.

After that day, nothing. For approximately a year and a half, whenever Cyclonus thought of Whirl she wondered if the girl had died, if she’d finally gotten into something she couldn’t outrun, something that hadn’t given her the time to reach the hospital. She kept her in her prayers.

Then Whirl showed up complaining of back pain. It looked like a malignant liver tumor in all the images.

“No,” Whirl said when they asked her to hand over her belongings for safekeeping. “I’m bringing them to the operation with me, you can’t have them.” At least, that’s what they told Cyclonus, who was called to pacify her.

Whirl was holding tightly to her backpack and shooting daggers at anyone who entered the room.

“Whirl,” Cyclonus said firmly. It wasn’t a reprimand or a call out, just enough to get the girl’s attention. “I’ll take care of your belongings.”

They stared at each other. Whirl looked away first. She took off the wristwatch and her eyepatch, dropped them inside the backpack and handed everything to Cyclonus.

Whirl was taken to the OR to have the mass and part of her liver removed. Against all odds, the tumor had ended up being benign, but Whirl kept developing complications after the surgery. The first few days, in the ICU, she barely stayed awake, only opened her eye to emotionlessly watch Cyclonus whenever she entered the room, occasionally spoke to weakly tell her to fuck off and leave her alone. Cyclonus prayed for Whirl and left a new, white and purple pinwheel on her bedside table.

She knew Whirl would be okay when she arrived to find her making the pinwheel spin.

“Did you look inside my backpack, Cyclonus?” she asked, trying for a smile. It came out tired and far more honest than Whirl probably wanted.

“That would have been betraying your trust.”

“Who said I trust you?”

“You trusted me enough to take care of your belongings.”

“What if it had been a bomb?”

“Then my death would have served as a lesson.”

Whirl recovered and came back two months later with an infection, then again two weeks ago with a new one. This time, she took a vase out of her backpack, put it on her bedside table, and put two pinwheels in it, like other people put flowers. One of the pinwheels was battered, slightly crumpled, orange and white; the other pinwheel was white and purple. Cyclonus didn’t comment on this, and also did her best not to think about how she felt about it.

.

.

.

.

As expected, Whirl’s in the park.

She’s sitting on the grass, gently petting a small dog that’s curled up next to her. Whirl’s scratching behind its ears, petting its head, rubbing its back, repeating all the motions almost methodically, to the dog’s obvious contentedness. There’s a blue and green pinwheel on her lap.

“Hello, nurses,” she says. She sounds chipper in a genuine way, which is something Cyclonus has rarely heard. “Took you a while to find me, what kind of care are you giving me?”

“Let’s go back,” Cyclonus says, making Whirl pout.

Miss Gates kneels next to the dog.

“I can’t believe you came too! Is Cyclonus training you to deal with me? She must be tired of putting up with me all the time.”

“I asked to come,” Miss Gates says, not taking her eyes off the dog. “Is it friendly or will it bite me if I pet it?”

“Only one way to find out,” Whirl says, grinning.

Miss Gates slowly puts a hand on the dog’s head and scratches behind its ears. The dog looks at her and presses its head into the touch.

“She likes you! Maybe you’re not so bad.” Whirl laughs and stands up. “Will this extend my stay?”

“I doubt it,” Cyclonus says. “But the Psychiatry team will want to talk to you.”

“They always do. I think one of them is planning a book.” With one last pat to the dog’s back, Whirl stands up. “I’ll sue them if they write about me.”

Whirl and Miss Gates talk all the way to the hospital, mostly about the dog, then about hospital food.

Once back in her room, they hand Whirl a new gown and send her to get a shower, then they call the doctors to let them know what happened.

“You handled her well back there, Miss Gates,” Cyclonus says after hanging up.

Miss Gates smiles and says, “Thank you, nurse Cyclonus.” She presses her lips tightly before adding, “You can call me Tailgate,” and blushing.

“Excuse me?”

“People call me Tailgate. There’s a story behind that, but… yes. You can also call me Tailgate.”

Cyclonus keeps her expression neutral as she says, “I think Miss Gates is fine for now.”

Miss Gates’ blush deepens.

“Of course. It was just an idea…” she trails off and looks away. “I’ll go write down what happened and file the report. Excuse me.”

She quickly walks out of the room and Cyclonus is left watching the spot where she’d just stood. Noticing that there’s no sound coming from the bathroom, she turns to find that the door to it is slightly ajar.

“Whirl, you’re supposed to be showering.”

The door opens. Whirl’s standing there, twirling the pinwheel and looking unapologetic.

“You didn’t ask me about this,” she says, raising the pinwheel.

“I already knew about it.”

“Won’t you make me return it?”

“It’s paid for.”

Whirl walks to her bedside table and puts the pinwheel with the others.

“I guess you’ll want me to pay you back. How much was it?” She puts her hands on her hips and waits.

“You don’t have any money, Whirl.”

“You’re right, I don’t have any money. And yet I’m in this hospital, in a _private room_ , with cable TV. I don’t think I’ve _ever_ paid for my stays here.”

Whirl’s face is expressionless as she studies Cyclonus. As usual, Whirl gives up first, but Cyclonus is sure that one of these days Whirl will win the staring contest. Sometimes she thinks the only reason Whirl loses is because she wants to.

With a huff, Whirl returns to the bathroom. This time she closes the door.

Once the water starts running, Cyclonus leaves.

.

.

.

.

“They’ll move her somewhere else pretty soon,” one of the medicine interns said, eight years ago.

It made sense. Whirl had only arrived there because her parents had brought her. Now that she wasn’t with her parents, paying for her healthcare was the government’s duty, and they couldn’t afford a private hospital.

Cyclonus made some calls.

Whirl stayed in the hospital.

 

**_Whirl_ **

Whirl has three pinwheels, an eyepatch, a broken wristwatch and a good memory of playing with a dog.

It’s too much. She doesn’t think she will ever have so much again.

She grabs the pinwheels and blows to make them spin; does it so many times that she gets dizzy from the effort.

Despite knowing that she shouldn’t feel this way, she’s almost content. It scares her in a way she has grown familiar with through the years; the anxiousness of knowing that nothing lasts, the certainty that this illusion of peace will be gone in an hour.

She ignores the fear and allows herself to enjoy these rare minutes of almost happiness.

 

**_Tailgate_ **

Clearly, Tailgate had done something right, because Whirl becomes a model patient after returning from the park. She takes her meds without complaining, amicably chats with Tailgate when she enters the room, calls her ‘Tailgate’ instead of ‘nurse’ and even asks her to tell the story behind the nickname. According to what she’s read on the file, Whirl has never been so well-behaved. Frankly, that also makes her a little nervous; she wonders if Whirl’s setting her up for a prank.

Nurse Cyclonus regularly checks up on her when she’s with Whirl. She’s not subtle about this, she stands at the door and watches them interact, which only makes Tailgate nervous and clumsy. It’s not her fault that Nurse Cyclonus is beautiful.

“Get it together,” she whispers to herself on the third day. She’s not a teenager, she’s not even young enough to justify how she blushes around Nurse Cyclonus, how her heart skips a beat when she thinks she catches sight of a small smile, and yet. She’s had dates and relationships, but she doesn’t think she’s ever had a crush before, which is just ridiculous. She’s too old for childish crushes, and Nurse Cyclonus is definitely too old to want to be someone’s childish crush.

She thinks Whirl has figured it out, if her almost manic grin and the way she waggles her eyebrows at Tailgate when Nurse Cyclonus leaves is any indication.

“What,” Tailgate says in a mix between resignation and a warning.

The only answer she gets is laughter.

“I like you, Tailgate. You’re fun to have around,” she eventually says.

Tailgate just sighs.

.

.

.

.

That night, on her way out of the hospital, Tailgate finds a dog. She recognizes it immediately as the one Whirl had been petting on the first day, since she’s the ugliest dog she has ever seen. It’s a small dark brown thing that’s covered in dirt, with a body that’s too long for her short legs, a face that looks like it’s being pushed against a window, a torn ear and some long-ish hairs under her snout that make her look like she has a beard. She’s curled at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the hospital’s northern entrance, and when Tailgate reaches her, she raises her head and whines.

It breaks Tailgate’s heart a bit.

“How long have you been here?” she asks her, crouching next to her. She puts out a fist to let the dog smell her, then pets her head. “Don’t tell me you came here looking for Whirl.”

The dog whines again.

There’s some bread from lunch in her purse that she’d meant to take home for breakfast, but she figures the dog can have it.

The dog eats it in two bites.

“You were hungry, weren’t you?” Tailgate says, petting her again.

When she finally stands up, she finds Nurse Cyclonus standing a few steps away, watching her.

“That’s the dog from Monday,” Nurse Cyclonus states.

“I think so.”

Nurse Cyclonus looks at the dog, then at her again. Tailgate isn’t sure whether or not she should say something, although, frankly, she has no idea what to say. In the end, Nurse Cyclonus clears her throat and says, “Good night, Tailgate,” before turning around and leaving, apparently unaware of the fact that Tailgate has been left frozen on her spot, while her heart beats wildly.

.

.

.

.

The next afternoon there’s a plastic bowl with water for the dog. Tailgate doesn’t have any idea of who might have brought it, since she catches several people bringing scraps for the animal. She catches them when she brings down her own scraps to feed her.

.

.

.

.

“Code Pink. Sixth floor. Pediatrics. Code Pink. Sixth floor. Pediatrics,” goes the voice over the speakers, interrupting Tailgate’s very late, very rushed dinner.

It’s midnight and there are still too many hours left on Tailgate’s shift for her to want to deal with this. She just wanted a few minutes to eat in peace!

Groaning, she pushes away her tray and takes out her phone to call the Pediatrics wing.

“Hi, it’s me,” she says when they pick up. “I heard the announcement, what happened?”

“Whirl ran away,” is the tired answer.

Tailgate closes her eyes and sighs.

“Should I go check the security cameras?”

“If you can, yes.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Thank you.”

She hangs up, directs a longing look at her barely eaten food and stands up. She has only turned around to return the tray when she catches Whirl standing next to the… uh… that thing where you put the trays after you’re done eating - she’s sure it has a name, but remembering it loses priority to the fact that she’s found Whirl. The girl is holding a handful of noodles and giving Tailgate something that could be a sheepish smile, except that these four days and a thorough reading of Whirl’s file have led Tailgate to believe that Whirl’s unable to feel anything even remotely similar to shame.

Whirl waves with the hand that’s holding the noodles, splattering her gown and surroundings with sauce. Tailgate stares in disbelief for a moment before she sets down her tray, takes out her phone and calls to let them know she’s found Whirl and she’ll be bringing her back soon. Then she gestures for Whirl to approach the table.

Her bare feet make no sound on the cafeteria’s floor, and she waves to the staff when she passes next to them, again throwing sauce around her and earning their hate. She sits down in front of Tailgate, sets her elbows on the table and rests her chin on her free hand.

“Put that here,” Tailgate says, placing a napkin in front of Whirl, who drops the noodles on it. “Here,” Tailgate adds, handing her another napkin so she can clean her hand, then her portable bottle of hand sanitizer.

There’s an odd twist to Whirl’s mouth, like she can’t decide whether to laugh or pout as she pours too much hand sanitizer; it drips on the table as she applies it and she wipes it off with the hem of her gown. They’ll have to get her another one.

Whirl sets her elbows on the table again, cups her face with her hands and stares at Tailgate, who decides to go back to her dinner.

“Did you get hungry?” she asks between bites.

“Nah. I wanted to get Sparky some food.”

“Who?” Tailgate asks, puzzled.

“Sparky, my dog.”

“The one from the park?”

“Yes. I heard she’s on the stairs and I don’t want her to go hungry,” Whirl says nonchalantly.

“That’s very kind of you.”

Whirl’s fingers curl, digging into her face for a moment before she forcibly relaxes them. Wrong thing to say, then. Ugh, positive reinforcement is hard.

“She probably followed me here. You have to accept the consequences of the shit you cause.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she leans back and gives Tailgate a challenging look. There’s more here, but Tailgate’s not equipped to get it out of her, or to correctly handle whatever she ends up finding out if she somehow manages to ask the right questions.

“I agree,” Tailgate says, and shoves some food into her mouth.

Whirl only watches her, and Tailgate decides that the wisest course of action is to keep quiet for the rest of the meal.

When she’s done eating, she takes Whirl back to the Pediatrics wing, promising her that she will get the noodles to Sparky.

“And water. Dogs need water too, Tailgate,” Whirl says, putting the napkin full of noodles in Tailgate’s hands.

“She already has water. Someone brought her a bowl.”

“Really?” Whirl frowns. “Does everybody know she’s here?”

“I think so. I’ve seen a lot of medicine interns feeding her.”

“Hm,” is all that Whirl says to that, before going back into her room.

Tailgate quickly goes downstairs, gives the dog the noodles and returns. She’s clearly too old to be running, by the time the elevator reaches the sixth floor she’s still out of breath.

.

.

.

.

They have to report Whirl’s escape attempt to the members of the next team, including Nurse Cyclonus. She listens attentively to everything and, at the end, says, “Someone has to take that dog.”

The other nurses turn to look at her, all of them with apologetic and/or troubled expressions.

“She will escape again if the dog remains here.”

“We could call the animal shelter,” Nurse Andrea says.

“No,” Nurse Cyclonus replies firmly, at the same moment in which Tailgate says, “No!” prompting everyone to look at her.

“They might kill her, and it’s not the dog’s fault Whirl likes her,” Tailgate says more calmly. What she doesn’t add is that she suspects Whirl would not take that well. There’s a report on her file about how she’d trashed her room one time someone took her eyepatch; Tailgate doesn’t want to think about what she might do if the dog died. “I feel bad for her; I’ll take her,” she says, certain that no one will be able to tell she’s doing it for Whirl instead of the dog.

Nurse Cyclonus’ eyes narrow slightly; it’s barely noticeable but Tailgate knows she’s being studied. That’s fine, she doesn’t mind Nurse Cyclonus knowing her real motives; she’d also protested the idea of the shelter and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that her reasons were the same as Tailgate’s.

“We should tell Whirl the dog has a home now, though. So she doesn’t escape again.”

Everyone agrees and Tailgate is the hero of the hour. Nobody wants another Whirl situation.

.

.

.

.

Taking the dog home is a bit of a challenge. Sparky’s absolutely disgusting, but there’s no choice but to carry her in her arms the whole way to her apartment, where she locks her in the bathroom while she goes to buy food, a bed, another bowl, a leash, and a couple of toys. Tailgate cries inside for her budget.

The bathroom is disgusting by the time she returns, and so the rest of Tailgate’s morning is spent cleaning the bathroom and then washing Sparky, who at some point decided she liked Tailgate and started putting her head under Tailgate’s hand to get petted.

“It’d be cuter if you weren’t so ugly,” she tells her, but still scratches her behind the ears.

Sparky looks happy, though, at least until she realizes that Tailgate’s the only other person around and starts pawing at the door and whining.

“Oh no. No, don’t do that,” Tailgate tells her, kneeling next to her. “I’m sorry, but you have to stay with me.”

Sparky keeps whining.

“I promise you it’s for the best.”

That doesn’t help. Tailgate gives up and leaves Sparky to give the door sad looks, because Tailgate really, really, really needs to sleep. It’s been a long night and a long morning.

.

.

.

.

After taking her out for a walk and feeding her, Sparky calms down. Tailgate’s sure that she’s getting the hang of the situation and congratulates herself, then looks for veterinary hospitals in the area. She also asks her neighbor if she can look after Sparky when Tailgate isn’t around. If she’s going to be a dog owner, she has to be a responsible one.

She has Saturday free, and she spends it alternating between studying and playing with Sparky, who still gives the door sad looks, but seems to have resigned herself to staying with Tailgate. To be completely honest, Tailgate’s starting to like having somebody else in the apartment. Not eating dinner alone, even though her companion can’t talk, is a huge improvement on her life.

“You’re a good girl,” she tells Sparky as she feeds her table scraps. “You have to know that. You’re a good girl.” Sparky licks her hands and pushes her head against them. Tailgate laughs. “You only like me for the food and pets, don’t you? That’s okay, you still like me. You have to take care of me so I can keep giving you food and belly rubs.” Sparky closes her eyes and lets herself be petted.

When it’s time to go to sleep, Sparky curls up next to Tailgate’s bed, so Tailgate drags Sparky’s bed from the living room and sets it next to her night table.

Three hours later, she’s woken up by her phone. Burying her face in her pillow, she reaches for it and answers without checking who it is. Nobody calls at midnight for nothing.

“Hello?” she says, trying not to mumble and only half-succeeding.

“Miss Gates. I apologize for waking you up.”

“Nurse Cyclonus?” She’s immediately awake. “How did you get my number?”

“One of your classmates is on shift right now. I asked them for it.”

“Oh. Right.” Of course. Idiot. “What happened?”

“Whirl stole clothes and money and escaped.”

“Whirl did _what_?” Oh no. “Do you need help?”

“No. I’m calling you because I suspect she’s going to your apartment. Please check she’s unharmed when she gets there, check her vitals, and don’t let her eat anything.”

“Why would she know where I live?”

“She’s resourceful when she needs to. Text me your address when she gets there; I’ll get her. Good night.”

Nurse Cyclonus hangs up, leaving Tailgate to wish a good night to the air. Since there’s no one to listen to her, she adds a ‘See you soon.’ She gets up, closes the door, puts on the electric kettle and settles down to wait.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings. Through the peephole, Tailgate sees Whirl, wrapped in an orange coat that’s too big for her, making her look like an eyesore of a curtain.

She opens the door.

“Hi, Tailgate,” Whirl says, waving like she hadn’t just done a very dumb thing. “I’m here to see Sparky.”

“Yes, I guessed.” Tailgate can’t hide the helpless look she gives Whirl. Why is this her life? “Come in,” she says, stepping aside.

Whirl walks in and takes off her shoes, a pair of black military boots that were probably sold in the ‘Men’s’ section.

“Where is she?” she asks, her eyes immediately finding the bedroom’s door.

“No,” Tailgate says, blocking Whirl’s way before she can take a step. “You stay here. I’m calling Nurse Cyclonus, I’m giving you a check up, and then you can see Sparky.”

“Oh, come on! I came all this way to see her!”

“You escaped from the hospital!” She raises her hands in exasperation. “You’re my patient, I have to look after you.”

Whirl huffs and crosses her arms.

“Fine, nurse. Do your job.”

Tailgate calls Nurse Cyclonus and puts her on speaker, then directs Whirl to the couch, trying not to show how nervous she is about the whole situation. She likes Whirl, but her records make her someone Tailgate isn’t entirely comfortable being alone with.

At least Whirl allows herself to be examined. Throughout the whole process, Sparky can be heard whining from the bedroom.

It’s a relief when Nurse Cyclonus finally arrives and Tailgate gets to set Sparky free. The dog makes a beeline for Whirl and nuzzles against her legs, licks her hands and jumps around her, while Whirl pets her, talks to her in a funny voice and laughs. Tailgate feels like an intruder.

She gives Nurse Cyclonus a sideways look and takes in her appearance. She’s in a long black skirt and jacket, a white blouse, and high-heeled shoes that seem to be boots. Her hair’s down; it reaches her waist; Tailgate has to push away the urge to run her hands through it. This is not the moment to be smitten.

“Did they call you at home about her?” Tailgate asks.

“Yes.”

“Oh no. Why?”

“I’m considered to be the ‘Official Whirl Handler’,” Nurse Cyclonus says in what Tailgate is sure is a fond tone.

It takes her a moment to figure out that there doesn’t seem to be a safe reply to that.

“Would you like some tea?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Great.” Tailgate smiles and directs Nurse Cyclonus to the kitchen.

Almost an hour passes before Nurse Cyclonus and Whirl leave.

 

**_Cyclonus_ **

Whirl drags her feet all the way from the door of Miss Gates’ apartment to the car. Once there, she crosses her arms over her chest and gives the vehicle a judging look.

“That’s your car?”

“Yes.”

“How old is it? Is this thing safe to ride on? Does it actually work?”

Cyclonus ignores her and gets into the car. Eventually, Whirl follows her, taking the seat directly behind Cyclonus, who looks at her through the rear-view mirror.

“Safest seat. I don’t want to die when you crash this tin can.”

Well, Whirl taking direct action to prevent her own death, even if it’s just to mock Cyclonus, is definitely an improvement over the last eight years.

Saturday nights are a bad time to be out on the streets; there are too many drunk drivers and people on their way to, or from, different parties for Cyclonus’ taste. She’s also tired, since she was woken up to deal with the situation, and she’s annoyed, which doesn’t help her impulse control. All those elements combine to make her drive slowly back to the hospital.

It drives Whirl crazy, if the way she starts fidgeting in her seat and drumming her fingers against her wristwatch is any indication.

“This is it?” she finally says, practically whining. “I steal stuff, escape from the hospital, track down a nursing student, force you to leave your Saturday night plans to get me back, and you’re saying nothing? No reprimands? No ugly looks? Nothing? You once called me the worst patient you’d ever had, but now you’re silent?”

“There’s nothing for me to say. You know what you did and why you did it. I’m just doing my job.”

“Come on! There must be something you want to say!”

Cyclonus glances at Whirl through the rear-view mirror. The girl’s giving her a defiant look and Cyclonus considers her options. Whirl’s smart, she usually understands without needing an explanation, but this seems to be one of those cases where words will be necessary. She doesn’t like those moments.

“You’re sixteen years old. You have a history that intimidates everyone. These stunts won’t get you a longer stay at the hospital, but they might get you blacklisted.”

“It’s a hospital, you can’t blacklist a patient.”

“It’s a private center. I am certain they could find a way to keep you out if they wanted to.” Whirl snorts. “As I was saying, you’re too old for these things. You’ll be put in a new home after you get discharged, but in two years you’ll have to figure things out on your own.”

The drumming continues for a moment, then stops.

“Sixteen,” Whirl says dryly. “You said I’m sixteen years old.”

“That’s your age.”

“I know that. But why do _you_ know that too?”

“You have been my patient for over eight years. I know your birthday.”

They remain quiet after that. On the next red light, Cyclonus reaches into the glove compartment and takes out a pinwheel. This one’s navy blue and light blue, and it’s been there for weeks. She was going to give it to Whirl on Monday.

“Happy birthday, Whirl,” she says, handing it over without looking.

For the rest of the drive, the only sound in the car comes from Whirl blowing on the pinwheel.

“You’re the one that’s always paying my hospital bills, aren’t you?” Whirl finally says when they park in front of the hospital. She phrases it like a question, but voices it like a statement.

Cyclonus doesn’t bother replying, simply watches the street through the windshield.

“Why do you do that? It’s not cheap.”

“We have to go in now.”

“Cyclonus, answer me.” At Cyclonus’ silence, Whirl starts, “Cyclonus. Cyclonus. Cyclonus. Cyclonus. Cyclo-”

Sighing, Cyclonus turns to face Whirl. The pinwheel has been placed behind one of her ears.

“You were a child who needed help. I provided that in any way I could.”

Whirl frowns and crosses her arms.

“You called the cops. That was enough.” There’s no venom in her tone, just guarded resignation.

“You kept coming to the hospital whenever something happened to you. You were seven years old and you asked to see me. Every single time, you asked for me.”

“I wanted you to feel guilty,” Whirl says, raising a shoulder in a half-shrug.

“You were seven. I don’t think you’d mastered guilt tripping at that age,” Cyclonus says softly, and Whirl looks down, stares at her hands.

“You were kind to me,” Whirl mumbles, barely audible.

“I paid your bills to keep an eye on you. I keep paying your bills to keep an eye on you.”

“You don’t have to do it, you know?” She lets out a small, dismissive laugh, and looks back at Cyclonus with a condescending look on her face, like she can’t believe Cyclonus hasn’t figured that out.

“I know,” Cyclonus says seriously, solemnly, because Whirl is smart and she’ll understand what’s being said.

The corners of Whirl’s mouth twitch. She doesn’t look away as she says, “I don’t hate you anymore.”

“That’s good to know.”

A hint of a smile and, “I thought you didn’t care?” asked teasingly.

Cyclonus won’t reply to that. She turns back to the front and opens the door of the car.

.

.

.

.

On Monday, Cyclonus watches how Tailgate - Miss Gates - deals with Whirl. She seems to be slightly unnerved by the fact that Whirl got her address, but she manages to keep a good attitude, telling Whirl how the dog - Sparky - did on Sunday and even showing her pictures.

After Miss Gates leaves, Whirl scoots to the feet of her bed and, resting her elbows on the edge of the footboard, her chin on her hands, she asks, “Adopt me?”

She grins, eye closing, like it’ll make her look innocent.

Cyclonus’ eyebrows rise on their own, just a millimeter.

“No.”

“Awwwww, come on, why not? You look like you love suffering, and aren’t you a nurse? Shouldn’t you be looking after the sick like me?”

Whirl’s smile is in place, her head slightly tilted to the side, yet there’s a tightness to her expression that Cyclonus has learned to recognize from the times the psych team comes to see her. They leave after two hours looking tired and frustrated and the notes on the file describe the many ways in which she had refused to cooperate.

“I won’t adopt you because I’m forty years old, divorced and currently single, and I have a job that keeps me away from home _at least_ one night a week every week. You are a sixteen year old who likes being known as ‘the worst patient ever’, with a criminal record and mental health issues. No one would let me adopt you.”

“You forgot to mention you don’t _want_ to adopt me.” Whirl’s expression hasn’t changed.

“I’ve never wanted to be anyone’s mother. But if you need somewhere to live when you turn eighteen, I have a spare room.”

A heavy silence falls upon the room. Whirl’s face is blank, her eye glued to Cyclonus, who returns the look. Whirl wants her to squirm, to look away first, to do anything that might imply that she didn’t mean what she’d just said.

“That’s not funny, Cyclonus,” Whirl says, her eye narrowing.

“Of course it isn’t. You might set my place on fire when I’m out.” That’s a very real possibility, unfortunately.

“And you’re okay with that?”

“It’s just a house. I will mind it if someone dies.”

Whirl pushes back with her elbows and settles on a crouch. Her expression becomes indifferent and she says, “Tailgate has been making eyes at you. She’s cute. I don’t dislike her.”

For a millisecond, Cyclonus finds herself thrown off by the topic change. It hasn’t escaped her attention that Miss Gates sometimes blushes around her, that sometimes she watches her with an awed look, that she goes out of her way to talk to her (all these mornings, Miss Gates has passed by her office to wish her a good day before starting her rounds; during lunchtime, she invites Cyclonus to sit with her). In another context, she would consider what to do about this attention, but there’s nothing to think about in their current situation.

“Are you trying to set me up with a student?”

“There’s nothing to be done about the age, the divorce or the job, but you can do something about your relationship status,” Whirl says matter-of-factly. “She’s thirty-five and she’ll be done in two years. You can make it work.”

“Have you any idea of what you’re suggesting, Whirl?”

“I’m just saying.” She shrugs. “I don’t do relationships, but I’ve heard that when someone looks at you like you’re made of stars, that’s someone worth keeping.”

That’s an oddly poetic turn of phrase for Whirl. Cyclonus’ eyes drift to the bedside table. Next to the vase (which now contains the four pinwheels), there’s a thick paperback; the cover shows a woman in a white dress being held by a man in a white shirt, which is open to show his chest. One of her hands is on the man’s face, while the other is resting over the area where his heart would be. ‘Starlight Missing’ is the title, which only affirms Cyclonus’ suspicion that this is a trashy romance.

“The moms-to-be at High Obstetric Risk read a lot of romantic novels and they let me borrow them,” is the answer she gets to her judging, questioning stare. “It could be worse, I could be reading ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’.”

That’s, unfortunately, fair.

“The psychiatrists are coming today,” Cyclonus says.

“Cool. I’ll tell them about my plans to turn my life around and become a productive member of society,” Whirl deadpans, and grins.

There’s a lack of meanness to the smile that makes Cyclonus suspect she’s telling the truth. The fact that, later, the psychiatrists don’t look as frustrated as usual when they leave her room confirms it.

 

**_Whirl_ **

Whirl has a dog, a new prescription, and a place to live when she turns eighteen. She still has her pinwheels, her eyepatch and her wristwatch.

She can’t remember the last time she had so many promises.

She just needs to not fuck things up for two years.

She can do this.

She’s unvincible.

**Author's Note:**

> The references to child abuse are vague. You know it happened and what happened, but nothing is described. If you want to avoid everything, skip the entire section that starts with "Cyclonus has worked in the hospital for eleven years". The only important thing you need to know from those paragraphs is that Cyclonus is the one that called the cops, and that Whirl told Cyclonus she hated her back when she was twelve years old.
> 
> If you feel I should add more warnings, please tell me.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments make my day. If you liked this fic and feel like promoting it, would you consider reblogging [this post](http://veto-power-over-fanworks.tumblr.com/post/179257392575/a-soul-beneath-the-surface)? Thank you!
> 
> About the codes mentioned in Cyclonus' section, "Code Pink" is kidnapping/missing patient.
> 
> I'll return to this AU some day. I have to make cygate happen.
> 
>  **Edit:** the wonderful, beautiful and amazing [ squireofgeekdom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squireofgeekdom/pseuds/squireofgeekdom) drew some [ cygate](https://twitter.com/TeamSkimmons/status/1056379910615261186)!


End file.
